


the blood we shed

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [35]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Character Study, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Hero Angelica Schuyler, Hero Peggy Schuyler, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sassy Alexander Hamilton, Villain Alexander Hamilton, Villain Thomas Jefferson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9657971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: “You used to be a hero,” Angelica accused, a mournful tone in her voice.He couldn't help but snort. “I did,” Alexander confirmed. “Then you killed my team.”Or, a nonexistent teenage forms of deceased old white men (and women) in a superhero alternate universe that isn't real.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _gingerly-writing_ on tumblr has like a thousand superhero prompts. As I skimmed through them, I realized that there were a few that were just waiting to be written. I needed to do it like I needed air to breathe.
> 
> Without further ado, here's part one of my superhero 'verse.

_ɹǝɔuɐɯoɹʌǝu ǝɥʇ_

Alexander sauntered in leisurely, lazily conjuring half a dozen copies of himself as he did. This, he reflected, was one of the perks of being the villain – he didn't have to dash or run. No, villains walked at their own speed, calmly, and while he was usually bursting with energy, he found that those slow walks actually calmed him down, enforced though they were at first.

He stood still as one of his illusions stepped out of the shadows. “Hello, Angelica,” it said, smirking at Angelica's infuriated expression.

“Don't call me that,” Angelica hissed. “There's a reason we have secret identities, _Alexander_.”

The illusion shrugged. “Whatever,” it stated dismissively, waving its hand and instantly conjuring another copy of himself – or, rather, a copy of his copy – dagger already in hand.

Angelica narrowed her eyes. “This trick is getting old,” she noted with disappointment.

The illusion – Alexander decided to call it Hamilton – smirked. “Why change something which already works?”

“How very conservative of you?”

Hamilton grinned. “In case you haven't noticed, I have exactly one power, but I know how to use it well.”

Angelica kept her eyes on Hamilton's illusion even as she talked to Hamilton. Hamilton's illusion approached her, and she glared at it. “Take another step, and I will end you,” she warned.

The illusion shrugged. “Go ahead,” it offered. “I'm just another illusion, you know.”

“It still hurts though, doesn't it?” Angelica challenged.

She suddenly swirled, ducking her head as she did, and narrowly avoided the dagger aimed at her. It came perilously close to touching her face, and Alexander winced, even as he continued to watch the fight unfold with a morbid sense of fascination. At first, he had qualms about using violence against her – for the longest time, she had been his friend – but every time, he reminded himself of the reason why he changed sides in the end.

The illusion took advantage of her distraction and swung its fist at Angelica's abdomen. She smoothly sidestepped out of its way, only to walk right into a punch at her shoulder. She flinched, jumping out of reach of both Hamilton and his clone. “Seriously?” she panted angrily.

Hamilton ran at her at full speed, and Angelica aimed a kick at his legs. Hamilton jumped over it with a smirk, but Angelica used the movement to transition into an upper punch which caught him unaware. Hamilton and his clone disappeared, and Alexander winced. This was the main issue with his clones – he hasn't been able to figure out how to create them strong enough to be able to endure physical assault.

With a thought, the remaining five clones stepped out of the shadows, where they had been lying in wait, all wearing his trademark smirk. They formed a semicircle around Angelica, who frowned at them, as though changing her calculations to account for a previously-unknown variable. “Come out, Alexander!” she called out, taunting him. “I know you're hiding here somewhere. This is a _coward's_ way out.”

“This isn't me being a coward, this is self-preservation,” one of Alexander's clones retorted. “If anything, you have taught me _that_ much. My strengths don't lie in fighting.”

“No, they lie in _deception_ ,” Angelica spat, “as they always have. Deception and destruction.”

“I don't destroy,” the illusion continued. “I create anew.”

“You can destroy without creating, but you cannot create without destroying the old first,” Angelica countered. “You used to be able to. The Illusionist was a creator.”

“The Neuromancer is also a creator,” the illusion replied.

“The Neuromancer is a _destroyer_ ,” Angelica countered, smashing another of his illusions. Alexander grimaced as phantom pain shook through him. Though it may not hurt as much as had he been hit himself, there was still an echo of the pain Angelica inflicted on the illusion. His link with his illusions was powerful enough to be able to carry his emotions to his clones, so that they would be able to portray him realistically enough to fool even Angelica. The drawback was that the links worked both ways.

He kept one eye on the fight as he silently keyed in the last sequence that would start the countdown to activate the bomb inside the complex. There. He had exactly a hundred seconds to get out of the building.

Angelica remained oblivious to this. For all her intelligence, she wasn't omniscient.

Angelica made quick work of the remaining clones, striking half of them with lightning and simply knocking out the other half. She began scanning the shadows in search of Alexander. Alexander stared back at her, even as he was surreptitiously making his way towards the exit.

“You used to be a hero,” Angelica accused the shadows, a mournful tone in her voice.

He couldn't help but snort. “I did,” he confirmed. Angelica swirled around, staring in the direction his voice was coming from, even though Alexander knew that she wouldn't be able to see through the darkness. “Then you killed my team,” he went on, bitterness leaking from his feelings into his voice. “That tends to put a bit of a damper on a relationship,” he quietly conjured another two illusions, just in case Angelica suddenly attacked him.

“I didn't kill them,” Angelica protested vehemently.

It fell on deaf ears. “You as good as did,” Alexander turned his back on her, trusting her not to stab him in the back. In any case, even if she tried, one of Alexander's illusions would stop her. “Besides, haven't you heard? You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself–“

“You've never used clichés,” Angelica interrupted him. “Don't start now. I hear enough of them from Mr Magenta as it is.”

Alexander pretended to pout. “Have you betrayed me to other villains?” he put in as much hurt as he could.

Angelica wasn't fooled. “Why are you doing this, Alexander?” she always asked the same question.

Alexander always gave her the same answer. “Why not?”

_Why not indeed._

* * *

  _ɐuǝɥʇɐ_

Angelica walked in and unceremoniously collapsed on the couch, heedless of the fact that she was still wearing her supersuit. She slowly let out an exhausted grunt.

Alexander — no, _Neuromancer_ now, not Alexander, not anymore — had taken to venturing out into the city every night since June, and every night, Angelica was called upon to follow him and make sure he didn't try to blow anything up. The git knew exactly what he was doing, too — more often than not, he simply took calming walks in all sorts of places, forcing her to follow him as conspicuously as she could. She was successful for the most part, except the days when he would vanish all of a sudden — as though ceasing to exist — and she was left in the streets, gritting her teeth at the fact that the Neuromancer had fooled her again, and was probably plotting general mayhem and destruction somewhere. For all that she had known him for years, she still had trouble telling the real Alexander apart from the illusions — and she could only tell with any degree of certainty when she got up close.

All in all, Angelica hasn't gotten a full night's sleep in over a month, and she was ready to collapse where she stood — which she did, laying on the couch, mind blissfully empty. She finally gave in and practically _begged_ the Neuromancer to _please_ show consideration for his fellow human beings and stop committing crimes for one night; he replied by laughing in her face and tauntingly reminding her of her claim that never needing sleep wasn't a proper superpower.

Honestly, she didn't understand the Neuromancer these days — and to think that she used to have a (thankfully unrequited) crush on him back when he dated Eliza—

Well. There was really no use dwelling on the past.

With great reluctance, she finally mustered enough energy to roll off the couch into a crouching position, wincing as the movement strained her already-sore muscles. She set to work on stripping herself of the suit, took a shower in an effort to relax her muscles, and changed into her pajamas.

She made her way into her bedroom, mind already shutting down. She crept under covers, letting out a relieved breath, and mentally crossing her fingers, hoping against hope that the Neuromancer would lick his wounds for at least several hours. What she wouldn't do for a good night's sleep…

“What's the capital of Australia?” asked a distinctly male voice through the wall.

Angelica cursed, pressing a pillow over her head in an attempt to muffle the sounds even as her brain subconsciously woke up and began browsing through the wealth of information at her disposal. The walls between her and Eliza's apartment and that of their neighbour was woefully thin. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't bother Angelica, who even derived a bizarre sort of pleasure from making up stories based on the sounds coming from the adjoining apartment, but she was currently sleep-deprived to the point where she was running on coffee and sheer willpower – both of which were beginning to fail her. In short, she had reached her limit.

“Canberra!” she shouted at the wall, hoping against hope that her neighbour would take the decidedly unsubtle hint and lower the volume of whichever stupid variation of Twenty Questions they were watching.

Alas, no such luck. Angelica briefly wondered whether the universe hated her, then thought that she already knew the answer to _that_. “Umm… Sidney?” replied a twittering high-pitched voice, and Angelica's mind conjured up an image of a wide-eyed blonde dressed in a pink frilly dress, smiling coyly at the anchorman as if she could flirt her way out of a wrong answer.

“I'm sorry, Frida,” the anchorman's voice was filled with false sympathy. “That was the wrong answer. You're out,” his voice was once again all businesslike, his mind having in all probability already forgotten Miss Frilly Dress.

Angelica smiled vindictively, drawing a perverse sort of satisfaction from the unknown woman's humiliations. In her mind, anyone who didn't bother to look up such a classic trivia question before participating in a quiz show didn't deserve to win said show.

She then remembered that she was supposed to be angry at her neighbour, and stuffed her head into the pillow again.

The voices subsided to a low buzz, but it was still loud enough – and annoying enough – to prevent her from falling into the blissful arms of Morpheus. She groaned, because _seriously?_

She lifted the pillow again, and instantly, the voices coming from the direction of her wall grew louder. Angelica listened as the anchorman asked somebody – a man this time – about Harry Potter's birthday (July 31st, 1980), the name for excessive bodily hair growth in women (hirsutism), and how many bones there are in a giraffe's neck (only seven). She yelled the proper responses through the wall, partially to amuse herself, and partially because somewhere deep inside, she was still holding out hope that her neighbour will _let her sleep_.

She briefly considered simply marching over to the other apartment and shout at the neighbour until they shut off the TV, but that would mean getting out of bed, and Angelica didn't think she had the energy to manage that, let alone walk all the way down the hallway.

“What was Mickey Mouse’s name before it was changed to Mickey?” the man went on, and _sweet baby Jesus and Mother Mary_ , Angelica sincerely hoped that this torture would be over soon. Her brain was already over-stimulated as it was, and she'd be damned if she let her trivia-loving neighbour ruin her one quiet night this summer.

“Mortimer,” Angelica said.

“Thanks, Athena!” her neighbour called out.

Angelica's thoughts came to a grounding halt as her brain caught up with her neighbour's words. _Fuck_ seemed to sum it up fairly accurately.

She just _knew_ that her tendency to showing off would end badly for her some day.

There was a knock on the door. Angelica peeked through the peep hole. There was a girl standing at the door to her apartment, hands on her hips, staring at the door in determination. Angelica sighed. There was really nothing for it. She opened the door. “Hello,” she said cautiously.

The girl brightened. “Hi! I don't think we've ever been properly introduced, which is a tragic oversight,” she made a show of checking Angelica out, and Angelica was suddenly grateful for her complexion because her face was getting as hot as the girl in front of her. “I'm Maria Lewis. I'm your neighbour.”

“Angelica Schuyler,” she mechanically shook Maria's hand, and only belatedly realized that it was a bad idea to reveal one's secret identity to someone who already knew that one was a superhero. If Al– _the Neuromancer_ ever found out, he'd never let her live it down, having been subjected to too many lectures on that very subject.

Maria's smile lit up her face, highlighting her brown eyes and nope, Angelica didn't believe in that love at first sight bullshit. That was Eliza's role. Still, this Maria Lewis… “Do you want to come in?” Angelica suggested despite her brain reminding her that this was a bad idea for so many reasons, the main of which were that Maria being Angelica's neighbour didn't automatically make her trustworthy, and even if she trusted Maria, Angelica was in serious need of sleep.

“I'd love to,” Maria said mischievously, three steps into Angelica's apartment before Angelica even had time to react.

On the other hand… Maybe that _fuck_ would take on a more literal meaning than Angelica had originally intended for it. Maybe this was exactly what Angelica needed. Maybe, just maybe, for once, her relationship wouldn't blow up in her face.

She closed her door with a stupid grin adorning her face.

* * *

_ɹǝɔuɐɯoɹʌǝu ǝɥʇ_

Here's the thing about Alexander: he wasn't actually _evil_ per se. He didn't derive pleasure from seeing other's pain. His acts of violence were not random, nor were they meant to cause chaos for the sake of causing chaos. They were carefully planned, down to the most minute detail, always targeting infamous mafia bosses or drug lords that the law enforcement knew about but did not have enough solid evidence against to be able to issue an arrest warrant.

As a hero, Alexander had always thought it unfair that such scumbags – often more monstrous than the self-proclaimed 'supervillains' – were allowed to roam free on the streets of New York while innocent citizens were being targeted. He watched in dismay as the victims kept piling up, unable to help in any way more forceful than patrolling the streets and hoping that his presence would deter anyone from New York's criminal underbelly from committing a truly heinous crime.

As a hero, Alexander's hands were tied. As a villain, however, he was free to deliver whatever justice he felt was necessary. And justice it was – although the law said that no private citizen was permitted to take the law into their own hands, Alexander knew that nobody else would avenge the victims of past crimes and, hopefully, prevent future crimes by instilling a powerful enough fear in the mafia bosses. He was confident that his little revenges had an assuaging effect.

(He was under no delusions that, should he be caught and tried, the crime rate would rise again.)

The law was unfair. Angelica knew that as well, but she steadfastly refused to take the necessary steps to ascertain that no more innocent blood would be spilled.

Alexander could no longer stand by and watch innocents suffer. The death of his team had simply been the last straw in an already-hopeless world.

* * *

_suǝɹʌɐı uɥoɾ_

John couldn't believe his own eyes. Really, the sheer courage – some might call it recklessness – of the guy was incredible.

He had been on his way to a job interview when his taxi came to a grounding halt. John stuck his head out of the window, then instantly withdrew his head as a flying projectile flew right at him, nicking his hair. John winced. He carefully attempted to peer out again, and was greeted with a flash of bright purple. He sighed. Mr Magenta was at it again. The city's other two villains – the Neuromancer and the Marquis – at least had the decency to try to keep their fights relatively private so as to avoid civilian casualties, but Mr Magenta regarded such common courtesy as beneath him. This resulted in him being far higher up on the city's Wanted list than his fellow supervillains, which he seemed to take perverse pride in, if the incessant smirks were anything to go by. This also put a lot of pressure on the Duchess, Mr Magenta's superhero counterpart.

He was about to sit back in the taxi and try to wait out whatever fight was going on – it was far safer than trying to exit the car, after all – when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He stared with wide eyes as a short guy stalked – there was really no other word for it – angrily up to what was in all likelihood the heart of the fight, hands clenched into fists. “What the actual _fuck_ , Thomas?” the guy yelled, and if John focused closely, he could almost see the man's teeth glint in the sunlight.

“Um,” the villain began, “ _hello_ , random stranger–“

“ _No_ ,” the guy said forcefully, cutting the purple-clad villain off. “You will _shut up_ , and you will _listen_ ,” his lips twisted into a grimace.

“That's rich, coming from _you_ ,” the villain retorted, visibly getting worked up.

John decided that he liked the short guy. Anybody who could piss off Mr Magenta was alright in his books.

“I am, quite frankly, _fed up_ with you blocking the traffic every time you decide to destroy something,” the guy went on, blithely ignoring the villain's comment. “I'd never do that! So will you do us all a favour and _puh-lease_ ,” he drew out the word for effect, “move your fight somewhere private?”

John was speechless. What did this guy – this tiny yet fierce guy – think he was doing, openly challenging the most vicious supervillain in all of New York City?

The guy went on, heedless of John's petrified thoughts. “Listen, Mr Purple, I have an essay due tomorrow, so I really don't have the time for another pointless fight that serves no purpose but to bolster your own ego. And you don't even show any kind of innovation, either, which is quite frankly disappointing,” the guy threw up his hands. The light was reflected in his brown hair, and John's breath caught in his throat.

The brunet then went on to _climb into the roof of John's taxi_ , what was even this guy. “–and the use of repeated rhetorical questions to the point where I'm seriously considering throwing myself off this bridge is nothing but bad taste on your part–“

Scratch that. There was a growing suspicion in John's mind that Brunet Guy was just straight-up crazy, because there was no way a sane person would do even a fraction of what that guy was doing with such casualness.

The heroine had been watching the exchange with obvious amusement, her face indicating that she understood more context than John himself did. Now, however, she made a subtle movement towards the villain, holding out her hand as if to attack.

Now, John understood the 'kill or be killed' rule, and that there was no such thing as a fair fight when it came to superheroes, but even he bit back a hiss of distaste. Weren't heroes supposed to be the noble ones?

Apparently, the short guy held a similar view, because he raised an eyebrow and stared down the heroine. “That's low, even for you,” he stated in no uncertain terms.

Mr Magenta swirled around and took in the heroine. He sighed ostentatiously, because he was a drama queen like that. “Not now, dearest,” he told her.

All around them, people began to slowly step out of their cars, seeing that the guy had somehow managed to diffuse what had looked to be yet another blow to the city's budget. This was something Mr Magenta and the Neuromancer had in common: they both liked explosions, but whereas the Neuromancer kept them to the lower levels of the city, rarely – if ever – showing his face on the streets, Mr Magenta liked the attention of an attack on a bustling city mid-day.

The villain looked around, then snapped his head back to the brunet. “See what you've done?” he demanded. “People aren't afraid of me anymore, and I can't fight because of _them_ ,” he gestured around the bridge, which gradually came to be filled with people.

The brunet's other eyebrow joined the first one. “Here I thought you didn't mind civilian casualties,” he remarked.

The villain began to wave his hands, gesticulating something which John was unable to fully grasp. “Yeah, but— not like this— there's a difference—“

“ _Thomas_ ,” the brunet muttered under his breath, clearly not intending for anyone to hear, except John _did_ hear because he was _still standing on the roof of his freaking taxi_. The guy cleared his throat. “Mr Magenta, nobody has time for your bullshit today,” he said louder, his voice firm.

Mr Magenta flipped him off, then twirled around and simply— disappeared.

John got out of his car as the guy finally stepped down from the taxi. “How did he–?” John began, waving vaguely in the direction where the supervillain had been standing.

The guy grinned. “He didn't _actually_ disappear,” he explained, which _what_. The guy snickered at John's confusion. “He's a mind controller – he can make us _think_ he disappeared, trick our eyes, so to speak.”

John frowned. “Wouldn't the Neuromancer be able to do that as well?” he inquired.

The guy shrugged. “Yup,” he popped the P. He extended his hand. “Alexander Hamilton.”

John shook it rather enthusiastically. “John Laurens,” he said. “I know this might seem abrupt, but can I take you out on a date because you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever seen?” he rushed through the words, hoping that Alexander would be able to understand them. He didn't go on dates often, partially because asking someone out still reduced him to a blundering mess.

Alexander smiled. “I'd love to,” he took out a pen and a notepad – who carried notepads anymore? – and jotted down his phone number, offering it to John. “Text me,” he murmured.

Someone cleared their throat behind John. Alexander stiffened. John turned around and saw the superheroine stare at Alexander with something akin to surprise in her eyes. “That was unexpected,” she said. “Why did you do that?”

Alexander groaned. “Does everything I do have to have an ulterior motive?”

She tilted her head. “No, but it usually does,” she pointed out.

Alexander grimaced. He turned to John. “I'm sorry, but if you'll excuse me,” he said, phrasing it more like a statement than a question. He and the Duchess took a few steps away from the crowd until they could talk freely without having to worry about eavesdroppers.

John furrowed his brows. What was _that_ about?

He jumped as his taxi driver honked the horn, reminding him that he was still on clock. With a sigh, John got back into the taxi, mentally trying to calculate the chances of being able to salvage this job interview.

* * *

_suǝɹʌɐl uɥoɾ / notlimah rednaxela  
_

He had. The manager had been surprisingly understanding about the inconvenience of having a supervillain whose main hobbies include fucking up the city, especially Mr Magenta, and was willing to conduct an interview on the spot. John passed it with flying colours, and was hired on the spot, due to start tomorrow at seven.

Which led him to his current dilemma. He was sipping at a coffee while nervously fingering the piece of paper with Alexander's number. Should he text him? Did Alexander just give him his phone number to be polite? People did that, didn't they? Doubt clouded John's mind.

Fuck it to hell, he finally thought. He wouldn't know until he tried. Worst case scenario, Alexander would reject him, but New York was a big city – chances were that he wouldn't encounter Alexander ever again.

He fumbled with his phone while he typed out the text.

 _To: cute guy_  
Hi! This is John from earlier. You still up for that date?

He waited, biting his lower lip as he stared at the phone, willing it to do _something_.

A minute later, it chimed, indicating a new message.

 _From: cute guy_  
I said it before and I will say it again: I'd love to :D  
When?

John smiled.

 _To: cute guy_  
Are you busy right now?

He sent it before he had a chance to reconsider. While he loved the idea of spontaneous meetings, impromptu dates terrified him. Still, something told him that he didn't need to worry with Alexander – which was odd, considering that they guy stared down both a supervillain and a superhero in a matter of minutes.

 _From: cute guy_  
Nothing that I cannot reschedule.

 _To: cute guy_  
Stumptown Coffee Roasters  
Intersection of 29  th  and Bdwy

 _From: cute guy_  
I know where that is  
5 min

For the five minutes that followed, John stared steadfastly at the door. Exactly at the five-minute mark from receiving the text, the door opened and John was greeted to the sight of Alexander Hamilton in all his tiny glory. He waved to John to indicate that he had spotted him, then came up to the counter to order a coffee and what looked to be an illegitimate lovechild of a bagel and a muffin. John didn't ask for clarification, although he gave the hybrid a skeptical look.

Alexander stifled a smirk as he took a seat across from John. “So,” he began, sipping casually at his coffee. “You're cute. I just want to get that out of the way.”

John flushed but grinned. “Thank you,” he said. “Likewise.”

Alexander found that the blush suited John. “Do you sketch a lot?” he asked, indicating the sketchbook next to John's empty mug.

“I–“ John scratched his head self-consciously, looking away with an expression Alexander could only describe as adorable, “Yeah. I like sketching people, but I tend to focus on turtles.”

“May I see?” Alexander held out a hand for his block. He then froze. “I mean– you don't have to– don't feel forced to– I didn't–“

_Smooth, Hamilton._

John smiled, which showed off his teeth. He looked like the perfect model for a toothpaste advertisement, teeth as white as freshly-fallen snow, and _no_ , Alexander didn't care how cliché he sounded right then.

John offered the sketchbook, and Alexander took it gladly. He began to flip through the sketches, making sounds of appreciation as he took in the images. Some were stunningly realistic, while some were funny cartoons or caricatures, most of which Alexander recognized. He snickered as he came to the caricature of Dalai Lama, and bit his lips to keep from laughing outright when he saw John's version of the Clintons. “They're lovely,” he commented. “But why are your turtles so flat?” he frowned.

John rolled his eyes, as though used to the question. “They're soft-shelled turtles,” he explained. “They're supposed to be that way.”

“Oh,” Alexander said. He flipped through another page, then froze.

There, in John's sketchbook, was a frighteningly accurate approximation of the Neuromancer. The figure's head was looking aside, the profile accented with shadows here and there, the outfit drawn in perfect detail. It was an amazing art piece, but–

 _Has he been sketching me? Wait, what if he compares the sketches and realizes I'm– no. But I can't back out, not now. He'll think I don't like his sketches, and they're beautiful, they really are– but I can't allow my identity to be compromised just because of a cute guy. Wait. Is that Angelica talking? That's_ definitely _Angelica talking. Screw this, let's do the exact opposite of what Angelica would do._

Alexander held up the sketchbook for John to see, hoping that John would understand his silent inquiry without him having to say anything; Alexander was afraid that he would blurt out something along the lines of _When did you see me like this?_

John smiled. “Oh, that one? That's the Neuromancer. See, I'm an art student, and I like to sketch the unknown. Supervillains tend to qualify,” he explained.

“That's just your excuse though, isn't it?” Alexander asked, seeing right through John's weak attempts at diffusion. He had years of practice that came with living with Aaron Burr, after all.

John shrugged. “As good an excuse as any.”

“So what's your real reason?” Alexander prompted.

“I want to see if I can discover their secret identities.”

A thousand thoughts swirled in Alexander's mind. _And what would you do with that knowledge?_ he wondered. “How do you know they even _have_ secret identities?” he asked.

“Everybody does. I doubt that Mr Magenta's running around the city in purple robes all day. He doesn't seem like the isolated type – far too much of an attention whore – so it makes sense that he has another identity to socialize with people without having to face any repercussions.”

Alexander snickered at the mental image of Thomas running around New York City in his purple bathrobe – he tried to repress the memory of how he found out that Thomas even owned a purple bathrobe in the first place, to no avail – even as he was vaguely impressed with John's deductive reasoning. Sure, it wasn't on-par with Sherlock Holmes, but most people didn't realize that even supervillains needed a social life and couldn't socialize exclusively with each other, especially when two of the three of them hated each other's guts.

“Do you have Mr Magenta?” Alexander continued with his questioning, hoping that it was subtle enough for John not to catch on.

“Yeah. Flip the page,” John told him.

Alexander did, and this time, he couldn't control the laughter that bubbled up out of him. “How come the Neuromancer gets a realistic portrait, whereas all Mr Magenta gets is a weird-ass caricature?” he wheezed between his breaths.

John grinned. “You're not a fan of Mr Magenta, are you?” he asked mischievously.

Alexander shook his head. “Didn't I make it clear enough earlier?”

“You did,” John covered Alexander's hand with one of his own, and Alexander squeezed it. “Now, enough about me. Let's talk about _you_.”

Alexander was all too willing to acquiesce. Talking had always come easy, charming other people even easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> (Also, I just noticed that the series refuses to show that there is a sequel.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All the Time in the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10242005) by [AdotHann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdotHann/pseuds/AdotHann)




End file.
